


Snapshot

by Spectrospecs



Category: Baccano!
Genre: F/M, Gen, i cant believe i wrote all of these characters either, no significant novel spoilers, theres references to 1933 if you squint but nothing major
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 06:00:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13024749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spectrospecs/pseuds/Spectrospecs
Summary: When Isaac and Miria get their hands on a camera, nobody is safe.





	Snapshot

March, 1934.

The offices of the Alveare are dark and silent. Tonight, no tense executives wait by phones or hold secretive meetings by candlelight. No underhanded deals are being negotiated. The problems confronted within their walls earlier today were such that they can be set aside until the sun rises again.

That is, except for one office. Soft light streams through the crack under the door, and there is a faint sound of rustling paper. 

Ronny Schiatto, chiamatore of the Martillo Family, sits at his desk. A single lamp lights the room, and velvet shadows congregate around every corner. A small stack of typeset pages lay at his elbow – reports on the status of the varied clientele of the Family. Notes scatter the margins in sharp lettering: “Provide further persuasion” here, “Negotiate for at least half due by July” there. 

With no fanfare, Ronny sets aside his pen, and the final paper joins the stack. He gathers them neatly into a drawer before turning his attention to a small leather case that rests at the edge of his desk. His expression shifts almost imperceptibly. He couldn’t quite have been described as “bored” before, and now he couldn’t quite be described as “interested”, but still there is a shift as he opens the case. Out comes a small handheld camera, accompanied by three rolls of film. 

He has to admit, the camera is well-designed. When folded, it could be mistaken at a glance for a metal cigarette case. However, beneath a thin metal plaque that read “Ensign”, is a latch. When the latch is pulled, the front panel swings out on a hinge, allowing a bellows and lens to telescope out. He spends a minute admiring the mechanism, and remembering the events that had brought it here.

***********

Earlier that week, a familiar pair of voices entered Alveare, chattering excitedly. They both seemed to be dressed as all three Marx brothers at once, complete with large false mustaches, blond curly wigs, and Tyrolean hats. Miria was holding a leather case that seemed brand-new. The restaurant’s regulars caught the tail end of a conversation, with no way to tell where it had started from, as the couple found their way to a table.

“Incredible, Isaac! We’ll be just like Lee Miller and Gustav Saint-Germaine and Edward Steichen!”

“That’s right, my dear! You know, they have a saying in the East Village, or so I heard yesterday when we were passing through. They say a picture’s worth a thousand words!”

“We’ll be novelists! Photojournalists!”

“As far as I can tell, it means that for every thousand words we speak, we must take a picture to commemorate the occasion!” Changing tone on a dime, Isaac’s face turned grave. “But we have been lax in our duty up until now!”

Miria’s response, whatever it may have been, was cut off as a mug of honeyed tea was placed on the table in front of her. The pair looked up in time to see Seina set down a second mug in front of Isaac with a smile. They gratefully accepted their usual, and the owner of Alveare lingered. 

“What have you two got cooked up today?”

The pair smiled through sips of their tea. Isaac answered, “We’ve got a plan, you see, to retell all of the stories in the world!” 

“Oh you do, do ya? Does that plan ‘a yours have somethin’ to do with whatever’s in that bag?”

The pair were gobsmacked. 

“How could you possibly have known about our secret weapon?” Isaac cried.

“How could you?” Miria echoed.

“Well, hun, you were practically wavin’ it around when you walked in,” Seina said with amusement clear in her voice.

Isaac and Miria heaved great sighs, unable to find fault in her logic. 

“I guess the cat’s out of the bag,” Isaac said.

“Out of the bag,” Miria agreed, opening the leather bag. She pulled out a rectangular piece of metal, and with the flip of a latch, a camera lens and bellows appeared. 

Seina nodded, impressed. “Oh, you two got your hands on a camera, eh? That’s a pretty fancy little gadget. How’d you come by that?”

“It is a tale of unending intrigue and excitement, but it pales in comparison to the enormity of our task ahead.”

“We’re on a mission!” 

“Right on the money! We’re taking the spoken word and transforming it into the unspoken word!” 

“We’re making our mark on the world of art!”

At that, snickers that were more derisive than the usual derisive snickers they received sounded from behind them. Isaac and Miria paused, brows furrowed, and reconsidered their last assertion.

“Photography is art, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t it?”

Randy chimed in from a couple of tables away. “Nah, it ain’t. I mean it’s just capturing an image of somethin’ in real life.”

Pezzo added in, “Yeah, if it’s art you gotta put effort into it, like a paintin’ or somethin’ like that.”

“Is that so?” Something lit up in Isaac’s eyes. He turned to his partner with a mischievous grin. “Say, Miria, I just had an idea.”

Miria grinned back, sensing shenanigans afoot. “What’s that, Isaac?”

“Wouldn’t it be fantastic if we took all the effort upon ourselves to turn photography into art? We’ll capture the images, and in doing so, capture the hearts of the people who see them!”

“It’s the art heist of the century!” Miria cheered. After a second, though, her enthusiasm wilted into confusion. “But how are we going to turn photography into art?”

Isaac had to take a second to ponder that. Eventually, he turned to Miria and mused, “Well, art makes people happy when they look at it, doesn’t it?”

“That’s what it’s supposed to do,” she said, encouraging him to continue.

“So, I guess that means if we take pictures of things that make us happy, and then we look at the pictures later, that’ll make them art, right?”

“Sounds right to me!” she chimed, delighted at the idea. In a snap she drained the rest of her tea, leaped to her feet, and started striding towards the exit, shouting, “Incredible! Let’s have at it!”

Isaac tossed a dollar on the table to cover the cost of their tea (along with a tip nearly ten times the cost) and dashed after her. The door to the restaurant slammed shut in their wake.

***********

In his office at the Alveare, Ronny puts aside the camera itself and turns his attention to the film canisters. It happens as easily as lifting a finger, but for the fact that he had not moved. It could have been said to happen in the blink of an eye, but for the fact that he had not blinked. The rolls of film are sitting on the desk. In the next instant, two neat stacks of finished photographs have taken their place.

He picks up one stack and begins leafing through the pictures.

***********

_The hat shop out by the bridge._

_A flowerbox hanging from a window._

_A small dog with a curly coat, its tail a blur._

_A counter at a pastry shop, lined front to back with confections._

_The view out the window of an apartment building, a few stories up._

_A pigeon perched on a fence._

“Did we do it? Will these pictures steal everyone’s hearts?”

“Well, not so fast, Miria dear. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, you know.”

“Oh! That means we should take a picture of Ronny’s eyes next, right?”

“It means that only through the eyes of the person who’s holding something will that thing look beautiful. But they also already have to think the thing they’re holding is beautiful, so not just any photograph will do…”

“Eureka!” Miria exclaimed. “What if we take pictures of people who are already holding their favorite thing?” 

“Aha, you’re brilliant! And by showing them the pictures, they’ll have to think it’s beautiful, and our crime of the century will be impossible to foil!”

“It’s failproof!”

“It’s the best plan we’ve had in years!” Isaac said, giving Miria a twirl. “And there’s no time to waste! We’ve got to call up everyone we know!”

“Look out, world!”

And with that, the pair sprinted off, camera in hand and springs in their steps.

**********

_A young woman covered in scars kneels behind a meticulously-arranged assortment of explosives, ranging in size from acorn to brick. She displays her collection with outstretched arms, and the rows of bombs reach past the tips of her fingers._

“Alright, I think they’re all in the right order.”

Nice slowly circled the grid, casting an appraising eye over her handiwork. A couple of times, she began to reach down to swap the position of two bombs, then decided against it. One final circle, a nod, and she turned to Isaac and Miria. 

“Got the camer-“ 

She stopped short. The pair had fallen asleep sitting upright on the couch, curly wigs askew. They leaned against each other, looking any second like gravity might win out to topple them both to one side. 

“Aw, c’mon,” Nice grumbled. “It hasn’t been that long, it’s only…”

She glanced at the clock in the corner of the room and trailed off. It had been three and a half hours since she started arranging her collection. She sighed.

“Still. It’s common courtesy, y’know.”

For a moment, she considered pulling out one of her collection to wake them up. Nothing with any kick, just a bit of a noisemaker, to make sure they were thoroughly awake. She soon decided against it, though. Maybe if it were Nick or Donny; but she wasn’t sure how Isaac and Miria might react. She settled for tossing balls of wadded-up newspaper at Isaac until he blinked awake. 

The tripod was set up, and the shot framed. Before Isaac took the shot, he paused. “Oh, right! Miria, the notebook!” 

With a start, Miria pulled a pen and a small notebook out of her bag. She flipped to an empty page, pen at the ready, and nodded to Isaac, who said, “For posterity, please tell us about the item you’ve chosen.”

“Well, first things first, these few over here, I didn’t make myself,” Nice explained, gesturing to a small group of apple-sized grenades. “But they’re the only ones. This group here are flashbangs. No real damage, just good for spookin’ people who oughta be spooked. Over here are the smoke bombs. I really like this one here,” she pointed to one approximately the size of a bottle, “it can bring a whole alley down to zero visibility in ten seconds flat. These guys over here have more sparkle than punch. I can do just about any color, but we’re still tryin’ to figure out blue. And then the rest of ‘em do the work,” she finished, gesturing to most of the arrangement. 

“They’re amazing! You blew us away!” Miria chirped. Nice blushed and rubbed the back of her neck. She launched into another explanation.

“And, well, of course this isn’t actually all of ‘em. I have plenty more stock of a lot of these, but I picked out one or two of each type to show off. So there’s probably, uh, somewhere around three times as many as these here.”

“You could practically arm an army with that many!” Isaac observed.

“Which one is your right-hand man?”

“Good question, Miria! Which one is your favorite out of all these?”

“Phew, that’s a hard one to answer. I mean, it’s kinda like asking a parent to choose a favorite child.” 

“Ah, well, parents choose favorite children all the time!” Isaac demurred.

“I believe in you!” Miria added.

Nice decided to ignore the implications of that last comment. If she tried to pursue it, no doubt it would lead off onto another tangent with no answer at the end. She occupied herself scanning her collection over and over again. The task of choosing just one seemed hopeless. Each had so many memories, so much insight into exactly why she made them and exactly how they worked for their specific purpose. But after a minute or so, she found that her gaze lingered on one, and seemed drawn back to it no matter how hard she tried to consider the others. 

She reached down and plucked the bomb out of the arrangement, careful not to disturb its neighbors. It was not that large, nor was it exceptionally small. It fit comfortably in her palm.

“So, what can this one do?” Isaac said, leaning in close.

“More bang for the buck?” Miria guessed, copying his pose.

Nice shook her head gently, bouncing the explosive softly in her palm. “Nah. This one doesn’t pack much of a punch. But it was one of the very first formulas I developed. And in its first test, it took my eye and gave me these scars in return.”

She smiled, her mind somewhere far away. “And I guess that’s why it’s my favorite. I’ve left my mark a lot of places with my bombs, but this was the first time one left a mark on me. It’s almost like, while I was making it, it made me who I am.”

***********

_A gargantuan man sits on a couch, taking up all three seats comfortably, and holds up a small wooden figurine in the shape of a mule. Though the photograph is black and white, it is clear that the figurine is painted in bold colors and patterns._

“It’s a milagro,” Donny said. He did not deign to elaborate, and after a second, Isaac began nodding, appraising the piece with focused intent.

“Oho, a milagro, is it? Ah yes, a genuine milagro. Not often you see quite such a milagro as this. A stellar example of a milagro, wouldn’t you agree, Miria?”

Miria nodded along and asked, “What’s a milagro?”

Isaac’s expression did not change, nor did his persistent nodding, as he said, “Yes, what exactly is a milagro, my fine friend?” 

“Means miracle. ‘S a charm. Good luck.”

“My goodness, a miracle! Miria, we are in the presence of a bonafide miracle!”

“Incredible! Just like last year!”

“You’re right, my dear, there was a miracle last year at this very house, was there not? A miracle of regeneration, and now Donny comes bearing a miracle of fortune!”

“How heavenly!”

“We should designate this house as a house of worship! A shrine to commemorate the miracles performed within its walls!”

“Oh, but you can’t live in a church unless you’re a monk!” Miria countered.

“You have a point,” Isaac said. “In that case there’ll be no hope for it, we’ll have to steal all the cutlery and make our dashing escape before the monks wake up!”

“Uh, you gonna take my picture?” Donny asked. 

Their tangent interrupted, the pair returned their attention to the subject at hand. Miria picked her notepad back up as Isaac resumed his interview.

“Where did you come by this piece? Was it gifted to you by a younger sister? An aunt? A doting grandmother? A handmade treasure to keep with you forever, a last goodbye from the ones you hold most dear? It must have been such a touching scene, the sunset flooding the sky with vibrant hues, why, the very thought brings a tear to my eye…”

“Bought it.”

Isaac froze mid-soliloquy. Donny’s unamused expression didn’t change, and for a few moments the only sound was the scratch of Miria’s pen on paper as she crossed out Isaac’s explanation. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“Ahem, well, yes, our most treasured possessions can come from anywhere, indeed. But would you care to elaborate on why you chose this item as your most cherished? Is it, perhaps, a reminder of your hometown, of the life you left when you voyaged Northwards? A link to your origins, never to be severed by the scorching days and freezing nights, bringing bittersweet memories whenever you glance upon it, reviving your will and refreshing your spirit at the thought…”

Donny held up a hand, stopping Isaac before he could pick up too much more steam. He considered his answer for another moment, then spoke with finality.

“Looks nice.”

***********

_A man wears oversized round glasses with frames of thin wire. In his hand, he holds a leather pouch. A second pair of glasses, smaller and square-framed, is tucked into his shirt pocket._

“If memory serves, these are probably the oldest things I own,” Maiza said.

Isaac and Miria crowded behind him as he opened the latch on the wooden box. With more suspense than might have been necessary, he slowly lifted the lid, as if moving too quickly might frighten the contents. Revealed in the velvet-lined interior was a leather pouch, approximately the size of his hand. 

“I actually haven’t taken these out in quite a few years,” he admitted, brushing dust off of the case. “But that’s probably for the best. They’re not that durable.”

Gently, he undid the clasp, and pulled out a pair of eyeglasses. Isaac and Miria ooh’d and ahh’d, as the superb craftsmanship was still evident.

“These glasses are basically all I have left from when I left Italy,” Maiza said, his voice far away. “They’ve got a lot of memories that go along with them.”

“What kind of memories?” Isaac asked.

“The kind you want to remember or the kind you want to forget?” Miria clarified.

Maiza paused before answering. 

“I wouldn’t say they’re all good memories. But I do know I should never forget them.”

“Well, you’re in luck, then!” Isaac exclaimed. “The way I understand it is, if you remember something off the top of your head, that’s usually remembering it not-so-well. But your eyes are on the front of your head! So that must mean if you try to remember things from the front of your head, it’ll be right under your nose!”

“But glasses sit on top of your nose,” Miria pointed out.

“Hmm. You’re definitely right. So, maybe that puts the memories even closer to your brain! The whole world should know about the powers of eyeglasses to aid memory!”

Maiza chuckled dryly, shaking his head at the couple’s leaps of logic. 

“Now the important question is, do they still work on you?” Isaac inquired.

“How do they look on you? How do you look out of them?” Miria added.

“They certainly won’t be perfect,” Maiza said, indicating a hairline fracture in one lens. “But I have no reason to believe my eyesight has changed since I stopped wearing them. So, let’s see.”

With no further ado, he removed his current glasses and placed them in his shirt pocket. He took his time opening the arms of his old glasses. At any point he felt slight resistance, he paused and worked on the other arm, so as not to accidentally pull too hard.

“Thanks for being patient, you two. I wouldn’t want to snap one of them off,” he clarified to the couple once the arms were about halfway extended. They nodded, lips sealed, watching the delicate operation proceed with unblinking stares.

Eventually, he got them open and settled them onto his nose. He glanced left and right a few times, testing the focus, then nodded.

“Well, the glass is a little foggier than my new ones, but otherwise, my eyesight hasn’t changed.” He hesitated, and a humorless grin quirked his lips. Almost too quiet to hear, he muttered, “Not too much else I can say that about.”

Neither Isaac nor Miria overlooked his shift in demeanor. They leaned forward even closer, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“And what do you mean by that?”

“What _do_ you mean by that?”

Surprised, Maiza leaned back, holding up an appeasing hand.

“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about, really,” he assured them. “It’s just that it’s been so long since I last put these on, it almost feels like I was an entirely different person from who I am now.”

Their narrowed eyes switched to furrowed brows, and they turned to each other to deliberate.

“Isaac, what would you have to do to turn into a different person?”

“Well, I’m sure you’d have to turn over a million new leaves.”

“But you just turn them over, so even with all your new leaves, the old you never really leaves!”

“If that’s the case, then the person Maiza used to be must have been just as fantastic as this version!”

“That has to be it! Because they can still see eye-to-eye!” 

“You’ve cracked the case, my dear!” Isaac exclaimed. “The glasses prove it!”

“Irrefutable proof!” Miria trilled.

They turned back to Maiza, whose smile had slowly grown while they were talking. He found himself suddenly grateful that the glass in his old spectacles was just a little bit foggy.

***********

_A man with a stern expression and a crisp waistcoat sits cross-legged inside an enormous wok. He holds an unopened bottle of white wine. There is a second man crouching next to the wok, a wide smile on his round face as he touches both handles of the pan. It takes almost his entire wingspan to do so._

“It’s almost ridiculous, isn’t it?” Fang grunted, hefting the giant pan onto a table. “It’s one of the biggest I’ve ever seen, and it’s definitely the biggest I’ve cooked with.”

Jon stared in disbelief. “How on Earth do you cook with that thing?”

“I gotta use all of the burners on the stove and a really long spoon.” He grinned, patting its side gently. “It was a gift from Miss Eve, as a thank-you for stickin’ with her through all that nasty business last year.”

Silence fell as both of them thought back to that frantic week. After a minute, Fang sighed and looked back to Jon.

“So, what did you pick?”

“Hm?” Jon startled, shaking off the memory. “Oh, well, I chose this.”

He held out a bottle of white wine. The faded label was written in a script so full of curls and swoops that Fang couldn’t even read what it said. He could read the date, though, and it was older than both of them combined.

“How long have you been hanging on to that bottle?” He asked.

Jon shook his head. “I’ve only had it myself a few years, actually. I got this from my old man, and he got it from his old man. My granddad was a pretty bad drinker, you see. My grandma used to joke that she had to keep him away from the fireplace, or he’d light up like a match.” 

He smiled at the memory, then continued. “Well, around the time he was turnin’ forty, one of his buddies got his hands on a real nice bottle of French wine. He went to give it to my granddad, but one a’ his other friends tried to stop him. Said it’d be a waste to give it to my granddad because it’d be gone between mugs of cheap beer. My granddad disagreed. So his buddy set a wager. Said that if the bottle was still unopened in a month, he’d pay him two dollars.”

“And this was two dollars sixty-some years ago, too?” asked Fang.

“Right you are,” Jon agreed. He chuckled. “Now, my granddad loved his drink, but more than that, he was a stubborn bastard. He showed up at that man’s door every month for three years straight with that same bottle in his hand.”

Fang laughed. “No kidding?”

“It’s true.” Jon turned the bottle over in his hands, glancing over the label. “To be honest, I’ve got no clue if it’d even taste decent after all this time. But we’ve kept it around. It makes for a good story.”

He set the bottle down on the table, next to the giant wok. As the conversation dwindled, both men’s attention was drawn back to the enormous cooking pan. 

After a minute, Fang broke the silence.

“I bet you could fit in it.”

Jon switched his stare to Fang, taken aback. A multitude of unspoken questions were written across his face.

For his part, Fang just shrugged. “What? You never see somethin’ that’s way bigger than it should be and all you can think is whether or not someone can fit in it?”

Jon opened his mouth to disprove him, then hesitated. A smile crept across Fang’s face as he elbowed him gently in the ribs.

“So, wanna try it out? See if you can fit?”

He tried to think of a good reason against it, but failed. Eventually he settled for, “I mean, why?”

“Why not? I’ll have to wash it again anyway before I cook with it.” Fang countered. “Aw, c’mon. Give it a try, at least.”

Finding no further arguments, Jon gave up. 

“Fine.” 

Fang’s smile grew into a grin, and he started to grab the handles of the pan. Before he could move, though, Jon held up a finger. 

“But just to see if I fit, and,” Here he paused to look Fang in the eye. His voice was dead serious. “I’m getting out before Miria and Isaac get back.”

Fang’s good cheer was undeterred. “Don’t worry, I can see into the hallway a bit. I’ll tell you if see ‘em coming.”

He hoisted the wok onto the floor. Jon stepped in, gingerly testing the grip of his sock-clad feet against the iron. After a moment of adjusting and re-positioning, he ended up sitting cross-legged. Given how his knees didn’t reach the rim, it could satisfactorily be said that he fit inside.

He looked up at Fang, whose grin had only grown larger, and shrugged.

“Well, I fit. Now wh…”

But before he could finish his thought, a bright voice sounded from right behind him.

“Wow! That pan’s big enough for Jon to sit inside!”

“Oh no, we can’t cook him up for dinner! We don’t even have any gingerbread!”

Jon froze. Seeing the look of dawning horror on his face, Fang couldn’t hold in his mirth any longer, and burst into guffawing laughter. He didn’t seem to mind that Jon’s expression now threatened murder. In the background, Isaac and Miria continued to chatter.

“Now, if you are what you eat, what are you supposed to be if you eat yourself?”

“You’d be a self-made man!”

“Well, this has been nice, but…” Jon started to climb out of the wok while they were occupied. In a flash, however, Isaac’s hand clapped down on his shoulder.

“Wait just a second, this would make for a great photo!”

***********

_A boy, perhaps fourteen, holds a sheet of paper up to his enormous gap-toothed grin. Faintly visible are ill-proportioned pencil drawings of a group of people._

“I’m gettin’ a lot better at drawing, see?” Will clambered up onto his bed and untacked his work from the wall.

“Amazing,” Isaac mused. He pored over the pencil sketch like a curator of fine art. “What a stunning likeness! I’m not sure a mere photograph could do it justice.”

“It’s incredible!” Miria agreed. She pointed to the figure in the very center. “That’s you, right?”

Will beamed. “Sure is!” He shoved himself in between them and pointed to the triangle-bodied figure who was holding hands with his pencil likeness. “And this is my little sister!”

“Oh, I didn’t know you had a sister,” Miria said, pulling her gaze away from the art to look at him. “What’s her name?”

“Don’t know yet!” 

Isaac and Miria stared in surprise for a split second, before joining in on his raucous laughter. 

“I know I’m gonna find her someday, ya know?” Will took back his drawing and started indicating the other figures on the page. “And in the meantime, I started drawing everyone else, too. See, there’s the bosses, and there’s Donny, and Timmy, and Betsy and Melody, and Nick’s over here.”

The next few minutes were spent clarifying the identities of everyone in the picture. At some point, Miria pulled out her notepad and recorded their positions, filling the page with her swirling handwriting. 

“Fantastic! Get yourself ready to be immortalized in film, young Will.” Isaac pulled out the camera and lined up the shot. “And for posterity’s sake, what is the name of your masterpiece?”

“Will you tell us, Will?”

“I do believe he Will, my dear.”

Will held the paper up next to his grinning face. 

“It’s a family portrait!”

***********

_An old man sits at an untidy desk, holding up a cylindrical ceramic cup. His bushy eyebrows and deep wrinkles almost seem to bury the rest of his face as he smiles._

“No two teacups can serve exactly the same tea,” explained Mr. Yaguruma to a rapt Isaac and Miria. “There’s something just barely different about the taste, even if it’s brewed in the same pot. Do you know why that is?”

“Hmm, well, I don’t know,” Isaac admitted. “Miria, do you have any ideas?”

“I’ve got nothing,” she said, pen pausing over the notepad.

“Good, because I don’t know either!” Mr. Yaguruma said with an enormous grin. 

“There are things even you don’t know?” Miria gasped.

“What philosophical depth!” Isaac cried. “To admit that you know what you don’t know is a sign of true enlightenment!”

Mr. Yagu waved his hand modestly. “Please, I’m nowhere near omniscient. I’ve just been around the block a few times. And besides, though I don’t know for sure, I do have a theory.”

He set the ceramic cup down on the table, and gestured to it as he spoke.

“This teacup is my most prized possession. It makes even the cheapest tea taste delectable. So let me ask you this: how much do you think it would cost to buy another like it?”

“Well, for an item of that quality, it would have to be quite expensive.” Isaac said.

“Worth a small fortune, at least,” Miria agreed.

Mr. Yagu’s smile grew even larger.

“You can find a million teacups precisely like this one for cheaper than dirt.”

The couple’s jaws practically hit the floor. Before they could recollect and start on another tangent, Mr. Yagu went on.

“And that’s what makes it so important that it’s special to me. You see, the way you think about something can change the very essence of what it is.”

Isaac’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure I follow. You’re saying that you can alter something just by thinking about it?”

“Like shapeshifting? Transfiguration? Alchemical reactions?” Miria guessed.

“Eh, just about,” Mr. Yaguruma said. “But the thing itself doesn’t physically change. Like, this teacup. I could think about it for a week straight, and it wouldn’t change the fact that it was made of clay. But it could change how much value it has.”

Isaac and Miria nodded slowly. Miria was still hovering her pen hesitantly over the paper, not quite sure what to write. Mr. Yagu paused, then tried another angle.

“If you tried to sell it to someone else, this teacup would be worth nothing. But if I were to buy it back, I’d pay just about anything for it.”

He began turning the cup over in his hands as he talked, and the young couple began nodding more assuredly. Miria’s pen again looped across the page.

“This teacup came from my hometown back in Japan. It’s older than both of you put together. And because I think it’s so special, there’s something special about any tea that I drink from this cup, as well. But someone else who might just happen across it one day wouldn’t think of it like that. He’d just see a cheap old cup, and so that’s all it’d be to him.”

At this he looked the pair of them in the eyes. 

“If I’ve learned one thing over my life, it’s this: Never let someone convince you the best teacup you’ve ever owned, or the best book you’ve ever read, or the best person you’ve ever met, is as easy to replace as they think. Because they can’t see how much you’ve changed it.”

***********

_A dark-haired woman sits in a dining-room chair. She wears an extravagant white dress, and she stares intensely at the camera. The strength of her gaze is accentuated by the hunting knife she holds, which is almost as long as her forearm._

“’I can’t decide,’” Miria read. “’Can I choose two?’”

Chané held out the note, a look of slight worry replacing her usual stoic expression. 

“What do you think, Miria?” Isaac said. “We did want the most precious thing for each person. What happens to our heist if there’s two things?”

“Well, maybe it’s double-or-nothing!”

“That must be it! The power of the photograph isn’t halved, but multiplied!” 

“Raise the stakes!” 

They turned back to Chané, only to find her already walking off, as she had already overheard their decision. A note was left on the table.

_Thank you. I will be back shortly._

True to her word, in a few minutes she returned, wearing a beautiful white dress. She also carried one of her knives. She retrieved the notepad and began to write.

_I have chosen this dress and this knife. They were gifts._

“And what else can you tell us? Who gave them to you? How long have you had them? What do they mean to you?”

“What’s the scoop?”

Chané blinked, slightly flustered by the barrage of questions, then her lips thinned in a decisive way. She passed Miria the note, then walked to the chair in front of the tripod as Miria read.

“That is all.”

Just then, the door to the hall slammed open, and a familiar voice carried from the entrance.

“Alright, I’m back! Let me tell ya, it was real interesting carryin’ this on the subway!”

***********

_A man with rumpled hair and eyes that seem to burn through the photograph holds what looks to be a large sheet of metal. There are words carved into it, a love note._

“Of course I kept it. What was I supposed to do? Just leave it there?”

Felix Walken said, holding the sheet of steel like it was a piece of paper. Isaac and Miria had launched off on their own tangent, but it took almost no effort to tune them out as he talked with his fiancée, who was looking decidedly embarrassed.

“I didn’t steal it, either. I even waited until the train wasn’t bein’ used before taking what was rightfully mine.”

“…”

“I don’t think it’s part of the train anymore, actually. These are the words you carved into my heart. And as my heart is part of myself, it belonged to me the moment you wrote them.”

“…”

“Where? Well, in my apartment, for the most part. But I was thinkin’ when we move in together, we could hang it up in the living room…”

“…”

“Or not. Wherever. It could even be destroyed and it would still exist in my world, and so it will never actually be gone.”

“…”

“Oh yeah, you’ve got a point there. We’ll have a photo of it too. Might be easier to hang on a wall then the original.”

“…”

“Great, then it’s settled!” At this he turned back to Isaac and Miria. “You two ready with the camera?”

A flurry of affirmative banter met him as he stared down the lens.

***********

_A man with short, blond hair displays a pocketknife with one hand and a thumbs-up with the other._

“I mean, if you wanna be real technical about it, it ain’t mine.” Nick said.

“It’s not yours? How come you have it, then?” asked Isaac, one eyebrow raised.

“How come?” Miria asked, raising her opposite eyebrow.

“Well, it ain’t like I stole it or anythin’,” Nick clarified. “I’m just borrowin’ it from a friend.”

Isaac sat back, nodding. “Ahh, _borrowing._ I see, I see.”

“I see, I see,” Miria confirmed, nodding along.

Nick laughed and waved his hand. “Nah, not that kind of borrowin’. Though, I’ve done plenty ‘a that kind, too, I guess.” He flipped the knife open and closed as he continued. “My buddy knows I’m borrowin’ it, so I gotta keep it safe ‘til I can find him and give it back.”

“Find him?” Isaac said. “Is he missing?”

“We could help you look for him!”

“It’ll be a great manhunt!”

“America’s Most Wanted!”

But Nick was already shaking his head. “Nah, I kinda know where he is. He’s just gone real far away, is all. Haven’t seen him for ‘bout two years now.”

“Well, one of these days we plan to travel the globe!”

“We’ll travel far and wide!”

“Maybe we’ll run into your friend!”

“It’s a small world, after all!”

Nick’s easygoing smile flickered, but it was back before either of them noticed. 

“To be honest, I hope neither a’you two ever go that far. A lotta people here’d miss you, y’know?”

Isaac sighed dramatically, then shrugged. “Ah, the perils of popularity.”

“What can you do?” Miria concurred.

“Well, just in case, what’s your friend’s name?”

“We could tell you if we find him!”

Nick’s grin widened and the knife snapped closed. 

“His name was Kenny.”

***********

_A young man in a light-colored suit holds up a fedora of the same color in his right hand._

“I told you, it’s not just the hat,” Firo explained, a note of exasperation edging into his voice. “It’s everything that goes along with the hat.”

Isaac nodded sagely. “Of course, of course. That suit does go stunningly with your hat. You have quite a knack for coordinating your outfits.”

“Like Elsa Schiaparelli! Coco Chanel! Madeleine Vionnet!” Miria chirped.

“No, no, it’s what the hat means! Like, what it represents, y’know?”

“Ah, what the hat means! I see now,” Isaac said with a wink to Firo. Miria winked as well, and Firo’s face twisted in confusion. Isaac took a step back and looked Firo up and down.

“Well, it’s definitely in his right hand. Miria, would you say he’s carrying it or holding it out?”

“Hmm, probably carrying it?”

“So, he desires our acquaintance! That’s good, I’m not sure I have a spare quarter on me right now.”

“Wow, you can speak hat, Isaac?” Miria asked.

Isaac shook his head modestly. “Unfortunately I can only understand it. I cannot speak it fluently myself.”

“What the hell are you two going on about?” Firo asked, switching his hat to his left hand. Instantly, Isaac recoiled as though he’d been shot.

“Firo! How could you say something like that to us?”

“How could you!” Miria cried. “What did he say?”

“To carry a hat in your left hand is a clear message of hate! Why, if you weren’t such a good friend, I’d put my own hat on the ground and sit on it!” 

“That’ll show him!”

“I’m tellin’ ya, that’s not it!” Firo shouted. He replaced his fedora on his head, and continued talking before Isaac and Miria had the chance to start up again.

“I’m just tryin’ to say that this hat is important to me, alright? Maiza bought me this hat, and that’s important. I got it the same day I first met you two and Ennis, and that’s important. And this hat means that I’m a capo of the Martillos. And that’s…” Firo’s voice began to soften, the irritation slipping away. 

“They’re my Family, y’know? And as long as I have this hat, it’s proof that I got somewhere to belong.”

***********

_A woman wearing a white buttoned shirt sits at a writing desk. A fountain pen rests in the palm of her hand._

“I got it for Christmas last year, from Mr. Maiza,” Ennis explained. “I was so disappointed when my quill pen broke, and I’m not even sure how he heard about that, but then Christmas rolled around, and…”

She trailed off, a faraway look on her face as she rolled the pen between her fingers.

“I almost didn’t want to accept it.”

“Why not? Was it out of ink?” Isaac asked.

“Was it the wrong color?” Miria suggested.

“Or maybe it was a left-handed pen, and since Ennis is right-handed, she couldn’t use it?”

“That might be it!”

“No!” Ennis interjected. “No, it’s a wonderful pen. It writes so beautifully, and it was so kind of Mr. Maiza to give it to me. Just like it was so kind of Firo to give me a place to live. Just like it was so kind of you to come all the way across the country to have me meet Czes.”

“Oh yes, that was quite a long journey, wasn’t it?”

“An epic voyage!”

“That’s just it,” Ennis murmured. Immediately, Isaac and Miria fell silent, listening attentively for Ennis to continue. 

“Everyone has been so kind to me. They’ve all gone out of their way to do so much, and I’ve done so little in return. I feel like I could never repay Firo, or the Martillos, or you, for everything you’ve given me, even with a hundred lifetimes.”

“Repay us?” Isaac asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Why, it’s us who could never repay you!”

“Never ever!” Miria agreed.

Ennis blinked. “What?”

“Why, you were the first friend we ever made on the east coast! Our port in a storm! Our Colossus of Rhode Island!”

“You’re colossally amazing! We don’t know what we’d do without you!”

“Not to mention you saved our lives! Twice, at that!”

“Being a real hero is worth a hundred pens!”

“A thousand! A quintillion!”

Overwhelmed by the barrage of praise, Ennis sat stunned. A small corner of her mind registered Isaac framing the shot and snapping the photograph, the pair of them announcing that they’d make the rounds in a few days with the spoils of their robbery, then the door closing after them.

For quite some time longer, she sat there, feeling the weight of the pen in her hand.

***********

_The young man in the fedora and the young woman with the pen stand together, his hand on her shoulder. Both seem much more awkward than in their previous photographs._

“What do you want a picture of me for?” Czes asked, a suspicious note coloring his words.

Isaac and Miria did a little jig.

“Why, you’re our partner in crime!” 

“Our man on the inside!”

“We’re in cahoots!”

“Thick as thieves!”

Czes raised an eyebrow. “What does that have to do with wanting my picture?”

“It’s absolutely necessary for our heist, you see!” Isaac elaborated.

“Absolutely!” Miria emphasized.

Czes nodded warily as they explained their grand scheme. He kept a wary eye on the camera, as if it might sneak over and bite him at any moment. Pictures were not good. Pictures told someone who you were and where you had been and when, pictures were incriminating, pictures were proof. He didn’t need a photograph of himself floating around for who-knows-how-long. He had to find some way to turn them down.

The duo finished their tale. Miria picked up her notepad and Isaac the camera, and they both turned to him expectantly.

“I have an idea,” Czes offered. “Taking pictures is just the first part, right? And the second part of your, erm, _heist_ means that you need someone to look at the pictures once you have them, doesn’t it?”

“We do, don’t we?” Miria gasped.

“I hadn’t considered that!” Isaac agreed.

Czes nodded, encouraging them on. “So, why don’t you skip taking a picture of me, and just bring me the photos of everyone else after you’re done?”

“What would we have done without you, Czes?” 

“You’ve singlehandedly saved our plan!”

Miria paused. “Oh, but… what will we do with the extra film?”

“That’s right, we do have film set aside for you!”

“We might as well use it, right?”

“Yes, we ought to be diligent, so as to not diverge too strongly from our impeccable plan!”

“Show us your good side, Czes!”

“OR!” Czes interrupted, holding out both hands, “Or, how about we use that film for something even more interesting?”

Isaac and Miria tilted their heads, their interest piqued.

“How so?” 

“ _How_ so?”

“Well, think of it this way. You see me just about every day, don’t you?”

“That we do!”

“All the time!”

“Right? So you don’t need a picture of me to know what I look like.” At this, he leaned in close, and motioned them both closer so they could hear his conspiratorial whisper. “Why don’t you use that extra film as an excuse to get a picture of something you never get to see?”

His smile could even be called dastardly, and Isaac and Miria paused, sensing antics afoot. Czes glanced back and forth across the empty room, drawing out the tension until he was sure both of them were hooked.

“It’s been just a little too long since we gave Firo and Ennis a nudge, don’t you think?”

***********

_There is a crowd of perhaps fifty people. Most are quite young, and some seem like they could be under ten years old. They are arranged by height, with the children sitting in front and the adults standing in the back. Many people from previous pictures are visible. The giant man stands head and shoulders above everyone else; the man with intense eyes rests his hand on the dark-haired woman’s shoulder; the gap-toothed child kneels with others his age; the man with the pocketknife stands next to the men who posed with the wok. In the center, a young man stands alongside the scarred woman. Half of his face is obscured by a dark tattoo._

“Alright, is this everyone?” Jacuzzi called. “Anyone missing?”

“I think we’re all here.” “Yeah, Joe got back from the bathroom!” “Hyaha!” “No, we gotta wait, my little sister isn’t here yet!” “Moron, we’ll be waiting here forever!” “We’ve already spent twelve minutes and thirty-seven point six seconds getting arranged. Let’s not take up too much more of the boss’s time.” “Hyaha!”

Nice clapped her hands. “C’mon guys, everyone hold real still. We’ll only get one shot, and you don’t wanna be blurry.”

Everybody scuffled to make sure they were where they needed to be. The focused silence was broken when a girl piped up from the very front row. 

“What if I do wanna be blurry?”

Giggles broke out among the younger kids, while a collection of sighs sounded from the adults in the back. A boy a few years older than her raised his hand and said, “Yeah, what if I wanna be blurry too?”

“Me too!” “Yeah, let us be blurry!” “Hyaha!” “That camera captures photographs at a shutter speed of up to 1/50 of a second. I would be interested to see how quickly we would have to move…” 

The last comment was drowned out as practically every member of the gang under 16 years old started up a chant of “BLUR-RY! BLUR-RY! BLUR-RY!”, their fists or shoes hitting the ballroom floor with every syllable.

Jacuzzi’s brow crumpled, and he turned to the woman next to him. “Nice, what do we do? I mean, a photo of everyone would be nice to have and all, but I don’t wanna hold them back if this’ll make them happy, you know?”

Nice sighed. “C’mon, when are we gonna get another chance to get a picture of all of us? You gotta put your foot down. If we both tell ‘em to sit still, they’ll listen.”

“But…” He looked over the children in front of him. Though most of them were still chanting, the girl who had first asked was staring at Jacuzzi with enormous, pleading eyes, her hands clasped under her chin. He turned back to Nice and gestured helplessly towards the girl without another word. 

Nick tapped Nice on the shoulder and said in a low voice, “Look, Boss, I know you wanna get a nice photo and all, but if the kids end up gettin’ to be blurry, could I try an’ be blurry too?”

“For the love of…!” Nice groaned, burying her face in her hands. 

Jacuzzi immediately began tearing up. “Oh no, Nice, I’m sorry, it’s all my fault. I’ll have to tell everyone that they can’t be blurry… oh, but what if that makes everyone too upset to stand still? I mean, sometimes when I’m upset, I start shaking and that would mess up the picture anyway, and then you’d be upset too, and nobody would be happy and it’s _all my fault…_ ”

“HEY!”

Just then, Isaac’s voice broke through the growing chatter. He and Miria were waving from about ten yards back, where they’d set up the tripod. Miria was holding the notepad she’d been toting around all day.

“Hey, everybody! We counted up the pictures we’ve taken so far, and it looks like we have enough film to take two pictures of you!”

“Really? You sure?” Nice called back. Jacuzzi was attempting to stifle his sobs and dry his tears on his shirtsleeve.

“Absolutely!” Isaac shouted.

“We’ve got one left on the list after you, and we have three photos left on the film!” Miria confirmed.

Nice allowed herself a quick grin before turning and shouting to the people surrounding her. “You all heard that, right? One photo holding still, and then you get to try to be blurry for one!”

“We’ll do the regular one first, and then the blurry one second!” Jacuzzi shouted, his voice still wavering. “I mean, if that’s alright, of course. Is that okay with everyone?”

A chorus of “Sounds good!” and “You got it, Boss!” and “Hyaha!” and “Whatever you say!” answered him, and the gang shuffled back to their previous poses.

As Isaac made final adjustments on the focus, Nice nudged Jacuzzi’s arm and muttered, “Y’see? Everything turned out alright, eh?”

Jacuzzi smiled, misty-eyed. “I’m sorry, this ended up being such a production, and you didn’t have to help out so much but you did and it musta been annoying to deal with, and…”

“Really, it’s fine,” She cut in before Jacuzzi could pick up steam. There was a note of laughter in her voice as she added, “But honestly, what else did you expect, choosin’ the whole gang for your photo?”

***********

Ronny flips past the next photograph ( _The same group of people, except a few stoic adults stand in the midst of blurry bedlam_ ), then pauses as he reaches the last photograph in the stack.

_A sharp-eyed man stands alone in the frame. In one hand, he loosely holds a lit cigarette. The other is tucked into his pocket._

“There you are, Ronny! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

“Absolutely everywhere!” 

“Have you now?” Ronny asked, tapping his cigarette gently against an ashtray. Any eavesdroppers would easily believe that he hadn’t intentionally been waiting to reveal himself until Isaac and Miria crossed off everyone else from their list. “Well, no matter. Here I am. What’s the occasion?”

“We’re on the art heist of the century!” 

“We’re going to take your picture!”

He smirked and stood up from his chair. “When you put it that way, how could I possibly refuse?”

“Oh no, but we can’t take it right now! We’ve got take your picture with your favorite thing!”

“Your prized possession!”

“Something of mine?” Ronny’s smirk faded, his brow furrowing in mild concern. “Oh dear. You see, I have a meeting to get to in about an hour. By the time I went all the way home, searched through my possessions, chose an item, and came all the way back here for you to take my picture with it, the meeting could very well be over.”

“Alas!” Isaac cried. “Stymied by the relentless march of time and schedules!” 

“We’re caught between a clock and a hard place! What should we do, Isaac?”

“Well, we can’t not have Ronny’s photo, of course.”

“Our art heist wouldn’t be complete!”

“I suppose we could wait until after Ronny’s meeting is over. Time waits for no man, after all.”

“And we’re not time, so we can wait!”

“It’s a small price to pay for such a worthwhile prize.”

Ronny raised his hand, smoothly cutting into their discussion. 

“If I might suggest a solution? I was quite enjoying my cigarette before you found me. I’d be willing to take a picture with that, if you’d allow it.”

“Are you sure?” Miria asked.

“Don’t you have something important to you at home?” Isaac pressed. “Something that just screams ‘RONNY’? Except not literally, as that would be irritating to live with, I suppose.”

“I believe in appreciating the small joys of the present, when you stumble upon them,” Ronny said with a suave smile. He stood, tapped the ashes from the end of his cigarette (which, somehow, was the exact same length it had been when the pair first showed up), and placed his other hand casually in his pocket. The shutter clicked.

Isaac’s beaming face emerged from behind the camera. “Alright then, Miria my dear, that’s all our film! Now to get it developed and capture the hearts of the world!”

“The real robbery begins now!” Miria agreed.

“Where are you planning to have them developed?” Ronny asked. “Surely you’ll want them done in a timely manner.”

Isaac and Miria pondered for a second, then Isaac came to a decision. 

“Hmmm. Wherever we find first, I suppose!”

“Time is of the essence!”

“If that’s the case,” Ronny said, “Why not leave the film with me? I know a little place that does very fast work. I can deliver your negatives on my way home, and have your photographs back to you in the morning.”

“Would you really?" 

Ronny simply shrugged, a knowing smirk on his face.

“No matter.”

“Oh, but it does matter!” Isaac interjected. “To aid another person when you didn’t have to is the mark of an incredibly great guy!”

“No matter what matters might manifest, you matter!” Miria chimed.

For a fraction of a second, Ronny’s brows lifted, almost imperceptibly, in what might almost be called surprise. Then the smirk settled into something more like a smile.

“Well, who could argue with that logic?”

************

In the darkened office, late at night, that same smile returns.

With deft movements, he gathers the two stacks of photos into envelopes. He labels one “For Isaac and Miria” and the other “For the Occupants of the Photographs”, and sets them aside. However, the last picture from each set remains sitting on the table, his monochrome likenesses staring back at him. He picks up the photo, and speaks to the velvet darkness around him.

“They really ought to have saved some film for themselves.”

He is no longer alone in the photograph. Isaac and Miria now stand on either side of him, huge smiles on their faces. He returns the photo to the envelope.

“I doubt they’ll notice the discrepancy. And should they remember, I’m sure they won’t mind.”

The lamp clicks off, leaving Alveare empty and silent once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, a quick and goofy idea for day 4 of Baccano! Week turned into the most characters I’ve ever attempted in the longest fic I’ve written up to this point. An Isaac and Miria-centered fic where Isaac and Miria don’t do all the talking is so much more difficult than I ever expected it to be. So much of my roadblocks were caused by running out of sayings and idioms for them to misinterpret. I've been staring at this for far, far too long and by now I can only hope everyone's characterization was decent.
> 
> The camera they’re using is an Ensign Carbine No. 7 Foldable camera, which is a really neat design. I spent way too long shopping around this old camera catalogue to choose the right one. https://www.pacificrimcamera.com/rl/00472/00472.pdf 
> 
> Miria’s “eye of the beholder” line is based in my headcanon that Ronny keeps or helps keep the bees that provide Alveare with some of its honey. He’s the bee-holder. Eye of the… well, you get it. I didn't want to stop the flow of their banter to explain the joke, so into the end-notes it goes.
> 
> I couldn’t have Little Sister Kid go nameless, so I went with Will. He’s lowkey been a favorite of mine ever since his “I just want a family, okay!?” line. I had to put him in.
> 
> Yes, my reference of "I understand it, but I can't speak it" was from the Pirate Code bit of The Office. If you’d like to learn hat language yourself, here’s the reference I used, from a couple of newspapers in the late 1800’s. https://www.geriwalton.com/hats-and-flirting-language/
> 
> Finally, I had entirely planned and half-written this fic before reading in 1935 that Victor had gotten hold of a photo of Jacuzzi’s entire gang. I’m not gonna lie, I danced around a little, because CANON EVIDENCE.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all liked it, even if it's almost entirely too late to really be part of Baccano! Week. Let me know what you think!


End file.
